Apple Pie
by Lamport
Summary: For a split second he wonders why she would need help. The sugar canister is on the bottom shelf, and then it dawns on him. He follows quickly behind her, grasping her hips and pressing himself into her softness, grateful for her ruse. She pushes back firmly with a quiet shuddering breath before whispering, "Jesus Christ, you're killing me."


awakes to an unaccustomed sight. The sunlight is peaking into the open bedroom window, casting pink light on the bare chest of her husband. His face lax in sleep, she quietly observed the peaceful rise and fall of each deep breath. The oppressive heat meant that he must have shed his undershirt to find relief. His handsome face, in profile to her as she lay on her side, stirred her awake pleasantly and caused her to wonder, not for the first time, how he might have looked had he never gone to France. She found the dark angles of his brow and the peculiar shade of his eyes beguiling. How different his life might have been had he returned to the farm in Plover intact.

It's odd, but in the few months they've been married she has never seen him naked. Of course, they have been naked together. She can't help but blush thinking about it. Yet every time he comes home from the club and climbs into bed with her, running his hand shyly down her arm, it is too dark to see. She has to rely on her other senses entirely. Her hands uncover smooth planes of warm flesh on long limbs, pliant and firm to the touch. She tastes the salty skin of his neck, feels the tickle of his moustache across her breasts and the inside of her thighs. He smells faintly of soap and starch, but afterward his musk, the scent that proclaims his ardour for her, fills her nose as she drifts off.

They make an effort to be quiet. She's not sure who would be more embarrassed if anyone in the house heard their late night ritual. Even so, she revels in the small sounds that escape his throat when she rotates her hips and pulls him deeper. Just once, she wants to see his expression when he comes apart.

Despite the sweltering heat that causes her nightgown to stick to her slick skin, she feels a charge in her body in response to his. She snakes a hand under the sheet covering him from the waist down, but stops short when she hears the familiar sounds of the household stirring. Dad coughs and sniffles loudly in the bathroom and Tommy thumps down the stairs, singing a song about horses that he heard on the radio last week. Richard's brow furrows and she fears he will wake, but soon his breathing evens out again. His work shifts combined with the recent heat wave have meant that he has barely slept. When he came to bed the night before, they were both too hot and exhausted to even touch.

With a sigh she untangles herself from the sheets, and quietly prepares for the day. She pins damp golden strands of hair up off her neck, slips on a blouse and linen skirt before taking one last look at the man in her bed and making her way downstairs to start breakfast.

—

Mr. Harrow awakes to an empty bed and the smell of cinnamon. It filled the bedroom mixed with the stagnant air from outside. The light tells him that it's already mid-morning and he feels a sense of shame for not waking earlier.

Mother used to tell him that days could be wasted sleeping. After reading the story of Rip Van Winkle he stayed awake for two days, fearing the time he'd lose asleep while his loved ones lived and died without him. When he confided in Emma, urging her to do the same, she laughed him right out of the barn. Years later, in Normandy, he spent nearly a week awake, snatching sleep twenty minutes at a time. Then came the months in hospital beds when he wished he would never wake up again.

The morphine gave him such pleasant lucid dreams, but even in his wildest imaginings he had not thought it possible he would ever share a bed with a woman like Julia. She is every fantasy he's ever had come to life. Emma once told him the story of Pygmalion about a sculptor who fell in love with an ivory statue of a girl. They were nearly twelve at the time, and Emma found the story silly and stupid, tossing the book in the corner of the room, glaring at it from the corner of her eye without telling him the ending. He'd had to sneak the book out of their bedroom and read it up in the barn loft to discover that Aphrodite made the statue come to life so that Pygmalion could be with his love for all time. Despite what Emma said, he thought the ending was wonderful. He can't help but think of his scrapbooks, hidden away in the garage, filled with images of golden haired women setting dinner on the table, years of hoping and wishing for something he believed to be impossible. Jimmy and Angela sent her to him, his own ivory girl, of that he has no doubt.

Even though married life is less magical than he expected, (a never ending succession of bills and chores) he is still stunned at the sight of his wedding ring, and thankful for his adopted family.

Today he rises feeling fully rested for the first time in weeks. If it were possible to neglect his duties for one day he'd take Julia to the beach, pull her under the boardwalk and make love to her like they had the first time. After a lifetime of sleeping alone he is astonished at how accustomed he's become to finding her in their bed. The novelty of it keeps him wide awake and painfully aroused even at the end of a long shift. Only in the last few days has he managed to keep his hands to himself, once he considered that she might prefer sleeping. Even this morning his body yearns for her.

After a quick splash of cold water, he heads downstairs past the bookshelf on the landing. Paul looks up from his paper long enough to nod in his direction. He mumbles a greeting to his father-in-law, but realizes that no sound has escaped his throat. Sometimes after hours of silence it's difficult to find his voice. Paul doesn't notice, just moves his chair closer to the fan.

Every step downstairs makes the scent of cinnamon stronger. Passing through the dining room to the kitchen he sees Julia and Tommy hard at work over the small kitchen table. Tommy kneels on a chair with his back to the door, kneading dough with his hands. He presses his hands and arms into the bowl so enthusiastically that the cuffs of his short-sleeve shirt are dusted with flour. Julia reaches for a sack of flour on the shelf by the stove and doesn't see him come in.

The temperature outside combined with the heat from the oven makes the kitchen stifling. As she stretches up the hem of her skirt lifts above her ankles just enough for him to see that she didn't bother with stockings today. A revelation that makes him stall in the doorway just to watch her a little longer. She turns to place the sack on the table beside the rolling pin when she sees him. Her collarbone and neck glisten, peeking out from under her blouse and apron. Her cheeks are rosy, matching the pink of her lips as she smiles.

_

Richard is leaning in the doorway. The bags under his eye have all but disappeared. He is wearing her favourite stripped lilac shirt with the top buttons undone. His hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, he looks better than he has in days. She's happy she decided to let him sleep.

"Good morning. Sleep well?"

He nods and quirks the corner of his mouth into a smile before sitting across from his adopted son. She returns to the stove to warm the leftover coffee and listens to the conversation.

"Mmh, what are you doing?"

"We're making apple pies. You should cut the apples," Tommy explains, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Isn't it. Too hot for pies?"

Dad comes in to the kitchen long enough to drop his cup in the sink and complain before leaving just as abruptly.

"That's what I said. Does anyone listen to me? No."

She makes sure to complete her eye roll before finding a straw and placing it in the cup in front of Richard.

"We don't have much choice. I told the Young Women's Christian Association that I'd make three pies for their bake sale, and, well, it's tomorrow. Believe it or not, I don't like the house being this hot either." She says this last part loudly in Dad's direction.

Richard looks from the cup in his hand to her face and nods.

"I don't mind. Smells good."

She smiles and places a hand on his shoulder, unable to contain the urge to touch him in some way. She appreciates his quiet reassurance when Dad gets moody. It makes it easier. Everything about him is comforting and familiar, which is a wonderful change from the men she is used to. However, she can't help but wish that he wasn't always so predictable. Their time together is pleasant, but almost too safe. He always looks to her to see how she will react, to gain her permission to touch and kiss her. It seems ungrateful of her to wish for more when she's been given so much, but she can't help wanting him to stop being so damn cautious around her.

She is just about to tell Tommy to stop kneading and start rolling when she feels it- the brush of a thumb along the curve of her exposed ankle.

When she looks down at Richard he continues to stare straight ahead and sips his coffee, revealing nothing. For a moment she thinks she must be hallucinating – he wouldn't dare to touch her like this here - before warm knuckles drag slowly up and down her calf. Nothing else exists but the steady pressure of his hand, and the thrum of blood pumping in her ears. She curls her fingers on his shoulder and shifts her leg closer to his chair, feigning interest in the amount of flour Tommy has sprinkled on the table.

Richard takes full advantage of her proximity. It was strange to think that a few months ago he would have blushed to hold her hand. Each thrilling pass of his hand moves higher and higher under her skirt. Her eyes fix on the pie crust taking form on the table. Soon he arrives the back of her knee, then his brazen trigger finger moves further still to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. She makes a small sound in appreciation. Tommy stops to look at her.

"That looks great! Keep going."

Richard lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. He continues to look down, unfazed. Tommy places the bottom crust in the pie pan and starts rolling out the top. She was suddenly annoyed. How dare he wind her up like this, and how terribly wrong to do it right here in the kitchen, especially because he remained so frustratingly calm about it. A wicked thought comes to her, and she decides that she too can play this game.

"Finished with that?"

His cup is still nearly half full, but she doesn't give him a chance to respond before she grabs it and turns back to the sink, extracting her leg from his grasp. She picks up the strainer full of peeled apples, walks behind his chair, and places them on the table in front of him, leaning her body against his back as she reaches past his shoulders. Her breasts brush the back of his head as she retreats, her fingers moving across his shoulders to tangle in the sweaty black hair at the nape of his neck. She leans forward ever so slightly and blows down his collar.

Tommy continues on, oblivious, and cuts strips to make the lattice while she sits in the chair between them. She is gratified to see that Richard's shoulders have stiffened and he is breathing deeply through his mouth. His eye tooth peaks out from between full lips. He sits with an apple in one hand and a paring knife in the other, temporarily frozen. She smiles to herself, satisfied.

"You'd better get going on those apples. Tommy's almost finished."

It was then that he met her mischievous glance with a look so direct and naked that the game is suddenly no longer amusing. Her mouth goes dry and her lips part. They have to be alone. Now.

"... That means the pie is ready, right?"

Tommy points to the timer ringing like mad on the stove. Somehow she hadn't heard it. She jumps up, nearly knocking the chair over, and turns it off. The kitchen grows impossibly hotter as she opens the oven and takes out a second golden pie. A welcome breeze gusts through the open window, and their attention is momentarily fixed on the dark clouds drifting closer.

He turns his attention to the apple in his hand in an effort to calm his racing heart, methodically cutting through the flesh, pulling the knife toward his thumb. Soon his hands were wet with juice. It made his mind wander to the damp skin of Julia's thighs, and the sweat of his neck that she cooled with her breath. He shifts in his seat, trying to relieve the painful stiffness in his trousers, but it's no use. He should not have started this dangerous flirtation, but he needed to feel her, skin to skin.

She comes back to the table after retrieving the pie from the oven and sits down between him and Tommy again, showing the boy how to weave the strips of dough. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, exposing slender wrists and fine porcelain fingers. He is pleased to see the telltale flush of her arousal across her chest and neck. He feels oddly powerful to know he has affected her in this way.

Tommy quickly takes over, beaming at Julia when she praises his efforts. She leans back and watches them both work, tucking stray curls off her neck. He has to touch her again. He moves his foot so the toes of their shoes rest together. She looks out the window and smiles, her ears turning pink.

"I think it might rain later," she says. "It would be a damn miracle to get some relief from this heat."

He murmurs in agreement, sure she isn't just referring to the weather, and cuts the apples faster. In his head he cycles through every way he can conceive of to get her alone. Maybe they could send Tommy to his friend Harry down the street? No, that wasn't wise, especially with rain threatening, and it still didn't change the fact that Paul was in the next room. Maybe they could go for a drive, but for what reason? He can't think of a reasonable excuse.

While he continues to puzzle over their predicament, a piece of apple falls from the table – or did Julia drop it? Before he has a chance to move she's pushing away from the table and places against his knee as if to brace herself before disappearing under the table. He nearly cuts himself when he feels her hand move from his knee to his thigh before stroking him lightly with trembling fingers.

She re-emerges with a blank expression save for the dilation of her eyes.

"Tommy, you put the apples in the pie. I'll go get some more sugar from the pantry. Richard, would you help me? I'm not sure I can reach."

Without looking at him she strides purposefully around the corner into the back porch where the pantry stands. For a split second he wonders why she would need help. The sugar canister is on the bottom shelf, and then it dawns on him. He follows quickly behind her, grasping her hips and pressing himself into her softness, grateful for her ruse. Like always he doesn't have to voice his need. She feels the proof of it in the charged air around them and the hardness baring down on her. She pushes back firmly with a quiet shuddering breath before whispering, "Jesus Christ, you're killing me."

She grabs the sugar canister and slips past him back into the kitchen. It takes him another full minute before he is able to walk back in himself. When he does he sees that the pie is nearly finished. Julia carefully places the top on while Tommy pushed his thumbs around the edges. He watches, rapt, as she bends over in front of him to put the pie in the oven. Tommy sets the timer and jumps down from the chair.

"Go wash up, then you can listen to your program."

Of course! It was Saturday. Tommy always listened to a radio show for children at noon. He checks his watch to confirm. It's nearly time. Tommy bolts from the room and Julia turns to him, wiping her floured hands on her apron. She calls out loudly.

"Dad?"

"What?"

She comes closer, pulling her apron strings behind her back and tossing the loosened garment onto the table.

"I need to go out to the garage for a minute."

He is propelled closer to her, and finds himself caressing the skin of her neck. Her words have no meaning. All he knows is the intensity of her green eyes telling him she wants him.

"Who's stopping you?"

In a heartbeat she has him by the hand and is leading him out the back door, down the stairs and into the side door of the closed garage. He barely has time to register the wind and the thunder that begins to boom overhead.

When they are finally, blissfully, alone she speaks in a low serious tone.

"We have 20 minutes."

Thank God for timers and children's radio shows. If it hadn't been for those lovely inventions she would have missed out on the intense look that sends a rush of heat through her body. Richard advances toward her slowly, causing her to back up against an old work table littered with toy soldiers.

His nostril flares as he speaks words she never dreamed she'd hear from his lips.

"Turn around... And lift your skirt."

Quickly she turns her body, eyes shut with the certainty of pleasures to come, and pulls up her skirt. The linen is soft under her fingers and she feels a small measure of relief once the cooler air hits her bare legs.

Richard is soon there, rasping breaths into her ear, one arm around her waist, the other exploring the newly exposed curve of her hip. In all their encounters it has never been like this. The newness and the urgency of it all makes her legs tremble.

She shudders and clamps her mouth shut, feeling his hand move to caress her before teasing the skin between her thighs. The timber of his voice resounds through her body as he slips a finger under silk and across the aching part of her.

"Don't. I want to hear you."

She lets out a low moan at his request and he grips her tighter, digging her belt into her stomach and moving his hand to cup her breast. He drops his mouth to her neck and kisses her there, all the while pulsing his fingers into her rhythmically. In hardly any time at all she is rocking with the motion of his trigger finger, and pushes back to take him further inside. She tries to grasp him, to unbutton his trousers, but he eludes her hands and sinks his teeth into her neck, holding her there. Only the hot air blowing against her ear reveals the state of his arousal. It isn't enough. She needs to see him, feel him from the inside. She gasps and chokes out, "Please, Richard."

Quickly he releases her, knocking an arm across the toy soldiers and turning her around to sit on the table. She wastes no time grabbing him, hastily pushing his clothing aside until his heated flesh is encircled by her hand. She can feel the twitch of his stomach against her knuckles. Now it is his turn to moan.

Before she can give him another firm stroke he is pulling her to the edge of the table and shifts her body so that they can press together. The contact renders her temporarily breathless, her mouth opening. Richard has closed his eye, his dark brow furrowed in pleasure and concentration. Sweat beads along his forehead, dripping from his cheek to his chin.

She brings her mouth to his throat and licks salt there. He smells of cinnamon and coffee. She pulls back long enough to watch him sink effortlessly into her, and suddenly she has fallen back on her elbows as he thrusts.

Outside the rain begins to fall in earnest, and she is grateful because the sounds of the storm drown out the noises that escape her from some primal place she didn't know existed. Richard grips her roughly under her knees and pushes her legs further apart.

"Yes. Oh, God."

She begins to thrust back harder, urging him to do the same. His eye flashes from the point of their union to her face. He shuts his mouth and looks more determined and confident than she has ever seen before slamming into her, knocking the breath from her. All that's left is a reverberating slap that echoes in the rafters. Her body shakes with a force entirely new to her as he continues his wild pace. She's not sure who this man is, but he is not the careful lover she knew before.

She is dimly aware of sound of the tin soldiers hitting the floor and of gruff words of encouragement grunted into the humid air. In what feels like a moment and an eternity simultaneously her stomach twitches and shakes. She locks her ankles together at the small of his back to keep him encased in her for as long as possible.

When the fog lifts and her eyes open once again his movements have become erratic. She lifts a languid hand to the fullness of his cheek and pulls his hips closer.

"Look at me."

He forces his eye open and stares at her with unashamed lust, and it's her turn to feel powerful. She clenches muscles deep inside, embracing him in the most intimate way and watches, fascinated, as his mouth opens in a moan, his eye still fixed on her.

They manage a few more slow thrust before he collapses, shuddering, on top of her. They lie there boneless and unmoving, waiting for their breaths to even out and their hearts to slow. The rain has calmed to a dull roar outside, and for the first time in weeks the air feels fresh and clean.

When he moves off of her he looks strangely embarrassed. He avoids her gaze and stands up, withdrawing from her and gently pries the damp wrinkled linen of her skirt out of her hands and back down her legs. She sits up and snakes her arms around his waist, looking up at him with a smirk. His upper lip is shaking, a sure sign that he is worried about something. She gives him a pointed look. He pulls her into a hug, dropping his cheek to hers before muttering, "Mmh, sorry."

She tries to stifle a laugh. What is he talking about?

"Why?"

"That was..." He pauses to find the right word, "rough." His hands play with the un-tucked hem of her blouse.

She pushes him back and sets to straightening his glasses and tucking in his shirt. Her eyebrows raise slyly.

"A bit, but I liked it."

His face registers shock as she leans in to kiss him for the first time today.

—

She glances at his watch and bolts off the table, readjusting her hopelessly wrinkled clothes, grabbing his arm and dashing through the rain into the back porch. The muffled sounds of Tommy's radio show come through the swinging kitchen doors.

He is just about to grab her for another kiss when they notice Paul sitting at the kitchen table with his paper. He glances up at them and takes in the state of their clothes and flushed faces, growing redder by the second.

"Took your pie out for you. Guess you didn't hear the timer ringing like a goddamn church bell."

Julia hastily puts her apron back on and busies herself by starting the dishes. She is so preoccupied she doesn't see Paul smirk before pushing away from the table and sauntering into the sitting room.

She stops to look at him, still rooted to the same kitchen tile and looks down with a laugh. Only then does he notice the patch of his lilac shirt peeking out from the zipper of his pants. Seeing his obvious mortification she steps closer.

"Let me get that for you, dear."


End file.
